


no light between stars

by PhenixFleur



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Loki could use a therapist, M/M, Panic Attacks, but without the actual hurt part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever so often, he dreams of an endless expanse of darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no light between stars

**Author's Note:**

> I had a terrible, anxiety-ridden day. Writing this helped me through it. Little dialogue, mostly introspection.

As with everything, they come when least expected and least desired, _slyly_  creeping along in the dead of night with a level of stealth that even he (the paragon of lies, deception and trickery) has to admire. 

As with most things in his life, they are vicious. 

The dreams are about nothingness, an endless pool of darkness stretching for miles and light-years and eons, nothingness before and behind and into whatever future lies ahead. There is naught but empty space between stars, and deafening silence; perhaps it is the silence that is the worst of all his hells as it drives him to talking to himself, at first, rapidly descending into raving that only the unfeeling heavenly bodies are privy to. It oscillates between rage, rage at the hideous blue flesh and crimson eyes lying beneath the glamour and rage at the false family who've embedded themselves too deeply within his heart to be cut out and tossed away and rage at the body that refuses to  _fade_ , as intended, the moment he released his grip on the splintered remnants of the bridge, and sorrow, because he is yet capable of regret (a heart courting a love of mischief is still a heart), and the madness lurks along the edges, the occasional response to his words that does not come from his lips but from without, things that may or may not actually exist but he hears them regardless, and the cracked smile that follows at the breach in the solitude. It's not real, it's not real, but it's real enough to matter. 

So he responds, argues with the darkness whispering in his ear, commiserating with him over the  _betrayal_  of mother and brother and father, twisting every sweet memory into something sinister, a grand design in which he's the unwitting pawn (no longer), every motherly caress into manipulation ( _she is no part of this, she doesn't deserve your hatred, but she knew she knew but yet you were beloved_ ) and every assurance of nobility a bitter lie ( _perhaps he laughed, every time he alluded to your place on the throne_ ) and the word 'brother' is sour upon the arid expanse of his tongue, so he bites it back. Of his brother there is nothing to say. 

Of course, dreams of darkness and madness are merely dreams. They don't descend into nightmares until the light returns. 

There's pain, pain pain pain and soothing  _promises_  that are also lies and perhaps lies are simply the true nature of the world, all of existence is a falsehood and truth is the actual face of deception, perhaps nothing is real, but it  _feels_ real and hasn't this discussion taken place before, in between spaces where the light doesn't reach, where there's nothing to see? There is no deception in the words, no fine print, glory or agony, take your pick, except there isn't much of a choice to make because the latter is the unbearable end, the creeping horror of an eternity spent wishing for the death that's already eluded him, and wouldn't revenge be wondrous? The cloying, heady scent of blood and death and destruction? The fingers, figurative and physical, running along his scalp and massaging the notion into an addled mind, and really, is there any other choice?

I want this. I want this. I want-

He doesn't realize he's  _screaming_ , not the choked, half-measures generally associated with what he's come to know as anxiety attacks until the sounds reach his ears -- and by then he's too far gone to stop, tangled hair and thrashing limbs and an uncouth  _noise_  boiling up from somewhere within. 

Something, some _one_  tries to grapple him (somehow deftly avoiding the inevitable retaliation -- apparently they've done this before, and this registers  _somewhere_  in his mind where rationality still holds sway), strong arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding him steady, "Babe, it's okay. It's okay."

The panic isn't quick to subside, but the presence of another warm body, holding him close and massaging his back in small, circular motions does help, the awful involuntary sounds tapering off into a (shameful) broken sob because bodies are just as treacherous as thoughts and people.

In the morning all will be swept aside; not forgotten, but filed away alongside the rest of the things they don't talk about, Tony's inconvenient mortality or the inevitable arrival of the monster who once promised a fallen demigod a kingdom and who now lives at the back of his skull. Tony will tease him over his wild, disheveled black locks and the cranky feline expression he never fails to wake up with, and Loki will shove him out of the bed onto the floor because love and violence often go hand in hand, and the day will proceed as normal (as normal as it can be, at any rate.)

But for right now he throws composure to the wind, leaning into his lover's embrace and pressing his forehead against the arc reactor, seeking out its pale blue glow in the darkened bedroom as if it’s the only source of light in an endless expanse of darkness he's not entirely sure he ever left.

**Author's Note:**

> Drifting in space for awhile after trying to take yourself out would probably leave a few scars.


End file.
